


glory of the wait

by cykelops



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:45:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cykelops/pseuds/cykelops
Summary: The hunt for Wolverine was in full swing and Bobby had his role to play, not ahead of his team as he had assumed, but far, far across the ocean. He couldn’t argue the logic of sending him out there wasn’t sound. Kitty hypothesized whoever took Wolverine’s body had started their search elsewhere in one of Wolverine’s safehouses—of which he had as many as children— and with Wolverine’s propensity to collect strays and dangerous artifacts they could not discount the dangers that would arise had they found and taken something of importance. It was better to check than to be caught by surprise.





	glory of the wait

**Author's Note:**

> this is a short, sweet set up that in my mind is as long as my other Bobby/Daken fic At Frost Glance, but i simply dont have the energy or the time to write something like that. i hope you, like me, will enjoy imagining the shenanigans that could ensue from this.

Kitty programmed the Blackbird to take him bright and early, and Bobby touched down on Japanese soil at exactly eight in the morning, about thirteen hours ahead of what his circadian rhythm was used to. He had been afforded a week to train his body to the new sleep schedule and given generous information about his mission, which he suspected had been fluffed for the sake of making his task seem all the more important. Someone had gotten a shiny, new _Urgent_ stamp clip-art for their Microsoft Word, because it was featured on nearly every page of the document sent to Bobby’s field tablet.

The hunt for Wolverine was in full swing and Bobby had his role to play, not ahead of his team as he had assumed, but far, far across the ocean. He couldn’t argue the logic of sending him out there wasn’t sound. Kitty hypothesized whoever took Wolverine’s body had started their search elsewhere in one of Wolverine’s safehouses—of which he had as many as children— and with Wolverine’s propensity to collect strays and dangerous artifacts they could not discount the dangers that would arise had they found and taken something of importance. It was better to check than to be caught by surprise.

He _didn’t_ argue. He was quietly bitter in his own time. He understood this was an all-hands-on-deck situation, and that he was more qualified to assess any problems in Japan than all the other X-Men Kitty could have sent in his place because he actually _knew_ Logan and wasn’t otherwise occupied in Madripoor like Storm, Jubilee, and Psylocke, or off the radar like Jean, but he still felt as though his name was drawn out of a hat by shit chance, and _then_ he’d been stabbed with the short stick directly between his eyes.

It should be noted Bobby had absolutely no aversion to being in Japan. Frankly, the location was the only benefit of being excised from the X-Men like a suspicious mole to check on a hunch that might go nowhere.

The jet dropped him off across the river from a little city—little in comparison to the backdrop of grey and blue peaks in the distance, where the fog gave them the look of an old painting—still sleepily quiet from the hour. It was a city like any he might find at home in the country, colorful, blocky buildings hedged by miles of green in every direction. Thin branched trees followed the length of the river, topped with leaves like green fluff, fading into patches of tan grass. The wide river put Bobby at a breadth that made everything fuzzy as a Polaroid.   

Sure, he didn’t know the name of the region he was in, the Prefecture, the town, the nearest street, or why the jet had packed him enough rations to last him all _month_ , but it wasn’t the worst place in the world to be completely lost.

The armrest on the Blackbird had spat out a little translation device (which he pressed behind the shell of his ear), a communicator (packed away on his belt after he’d reported his safe arrival), and a compass that pointed not North, but in the direction of Logan’s safehouse and long past the little city. Of course, ever the lone wolf, it was too much to ask of the late Logan that he set up shop next to a restaurant or museum, somewhere Bobby might keep himself entertained with waiting for the Blackbird after his mission.

A lungful of fresh and clean air, warmed pleasantly by the sun despite the thin layer of clouds, nudged him onwards as the Blackbird departed. Bobby thread through the grass, he neared the bridge crossing into the city where a road begun, coinciding with the direction given by the compass. He followed the viridescent water as the arrow bid him, dragging his luggage along. They would be his only companions in the journey, the wide path before him was empty all the way to the tree line into which it and the river both disappeared.

The river grew wider as Bobby delved into the trees. A dam maintained the water supply thinner towards the city, made it good for fishing. Within the quaint little forest, the water was flat and translucent, letting the morning light slip through the surface to chase across the scales of big, bright fish. The river dipped unassisted, following the shape of the land into an outcropping of tall, mossy rocks forming a rich, green gorge. The road thinned and disappeared into a trail of dirt, beat down by footwork but not much else. No one traveled from or to here often enough for a road, or perhaps its natural beauty was preserved on purpose. It took Bobby to another bridge, one the compass encouraged him to cross.

He could already see Logan's safehouse, a white blot among green, brown, and grey. The wheels on his suitcase bounced on the wooden boards of the bridge. Bobby could have lifted and carried it across but he was too enraptured by the timbered structure to notice. It was an old building, with two blocky stories ending in a pointed thatched roof.

And from that roof came a thin thread of grey-white smoke.

The safehouse wasn't going up in flames, that much he was sure of. The smoke came from a building to one side from the main house. Bobby tilted his nose upwards and breathed deeply. It smelled alluringly of barbecue, odd for a place that was supposed to be deserted. There was something to Kitty’s hunch after all. Yet stopping to barbecue didn't strike him as villainous or thieving behavior.

Bobby sighed, he cooled around his mouth and spread to his extremities. His luggage went to the nearby bushes, his civilian clothes folded on top to be retrieved after he investigated or to be destroyed by an ensuing fight. If he could hope and be lucky enough for a quick end to the inevitable struggle. When you were an X-Man on a mission nine times out of ten diplomacy was not even on the table.

He hemmed the main house and stayed off the designated path connecting it to the little building as to avoid being seen on approach. The trees and bushes around the house provided him with ample cover. Japanese houses, especially old ones, sometimes kept the kitchen as a separate building. This wasn't that. The building was too new, even if the architecture spoke of ages past. Inspired by it, certainly, but he was pretty sure it was a more grilling… shack? It probably rained a lot down here, the easy storage space would be good help.

None of it answered the question: why is someone cooking ribs at a dead man’s house?  

Bobby heard footsteps inside the shack. From this angle, he could see it was missing its entire left wall. Where the wall was supposed to be there was instead a cloth overhang and a barbecue area, complete with a picnic table. The perpetrator of the mouth-watering meat cooking pretty on the grill was lounging just out of sight when he suddenly stepped out and forced Bobby behind a tree. Part of him was relieved the meat was recognizably chicken and beef. He expected roasting human bits.

The stranger stopped. Bobby got the feeling he was being watched, like ants crawling over the back of his neck. There was a slim chance he had escaped the stranger’s notice, or been mistaken for an animal. He was just about to take another peek when a voice spoke up. _To him._

“Come on out, nutty coffee. You're louder than a stampede.”

The sultry voice chuckled warmly. Bobby heard the rustle of someone sitting on the table and putting a cup down. Splinters were digging beneath his nails as he pricked them into the tree bark, his eyes squeezed tightly, like maybe if he couldn't see he wouldn't be seen.

“Sloppy, even for you.”

He recognized that voice, which is why he was initially more mortified than scared for his life. Curiosity _had_ made him sloppy. He could self-assess. If it wasn't Daken sitting around that table, it would be something to beat himself over the head later, but because it was, embarrassment came at vertigo-inducing speed. And then he felt hot. Even through the ice. The back of his cheeks hurt like after too much smiling. It was just too perfect. Too fucking funny. Finding Daken in the middle of a Japanese forest, barbecuing at his dad’s place. It made him giddy in a dizzying sort of way.

Daken had the quickest wit of anyone he knew including himself, paired with the skill to make even the most confident mind falter like a child’s. He dreaded the quips, and how excited he always was to test himself by countering them. Like a knife edge eager for the whetstone.

But no matter how much he wished he was a comical nuisance, more friend than foe, Daken had lost his opportunity to be his cheeky rival. His Catwoman.

An image of Judah laying in a hospital bed bolstered him from behind the tree. He pushed off and came forward, brow twitching impatiently.

“What's cookin’, good lookin’?” He said because he was still Robert Louis Drake.

Like a peacock looking to impress, Daken sat up straight and slid his arm over the table so Bobby would get all his best angles.  He cocked his head like someone tossing his hair back even though it was wrapped into a loose bun. He didn't flatter himself by thinking Daken’s fanciful display was for his eyes only, it was very likely everyone who he deemed susceptible to it got the same routine. Daken was _always_ suspiciously flexing things that didn't need flexing, and it would be funnier if it wasn't, to his credit, also very distracting.

“Haven't seen you since you planted one on me, snowflake.” Daken pushed his lips into a pout. “And then you never called.”

For as long as they knew each other, Daken would never stop bringing that up as it suited him. Even if it put Bobby on edge because it reminded him of the kids coming too close to the Apocalypse seed, or Judah, to Daken it was foremost a souvenir that he knew what his mouth tasted like.

“Nutty coffee?” Bobby asked, purposefully misdirecting. “You called me that earlier.”

Daken tapped the side of his nose. Ah. Those good ol’ Wolverine senses.

Bobby had stayed a few steps back. He wasn't keen on invading someone else’s space, and Daken and the other Wolverines were good at creating the illusion of space. Territorial bastards.

“I'm not here for you if that's what you're thinking, Daken.”

“Why would I think that?” His smile spread like a crack, a mockery of itself. “You're here for the old man, aren't you? Even his house won't share the spotlight with anyone.”

“You've heard what happened to his body.” Bobby said gently.

“My network for Wolverine sightings didn't crumble after his death. I understand resurrection all too well. Your message reached me his body was stolen, though it was more accusation than notification, and I just didn't bother writing back that maybe Logan just…” He waved his hand. “Walked out.”

Bobby had quietly and privately nursed that thought himself, but he couldn't allow it to take root. Kurt and Jean had come back to them, but for the two of them, there were at least eighty four other X-Men who had not. It wouldn't help anyone if he mourned twice.

“That's why I am here.” Daken continued. “This was his favorite house. He's bound to come visit. And when he does, I'll send the X-Men his corpse just like they asked.”

Bobby was so close to getting out of here scot-free. Daken wasn't up to anything. He'd clearly come out here to _hide_ from the Logan debacle if anything. He had become a different guy after Logan’s death, hadn't he? Marginally. Bobby only had Laura and Gabby’s word on that. Having time reverse on him by bringing Logan back probably had his character development in knots. But if Daken _was_ right and Logan was alive, and he really _meant_ he was going to try to kill him all over again, then he had made Bobby’s bed for him without fully understanding the nature of his mission: If he didn't find anything wrong, then he should stay put and prevent it.

“Daken, buddy. I have good news and I have bad news.”

“Oh?” Daken’s eyebrow lifted. He crossed one leg over the other and stroked his knee like a James Bond villain who couldn't afford a cat on time. “Good news first, please.”

“The good news is, I think you might be right. The bad news is because of that— which room is mine?” Bobby took one side-step, then another, then sprinted full force towards the house, leaving Daken sputtering at his back. Take notes, James Bond, that's how you throw a villain off his footing. You ask to move in with him.

“Bobby! Bobby, come back here right now!”

He heard the world's most beautiful sound before he made it to the door and the light reflected off his arm as he grabbed the knob— Daken cursing in Japanese as his foot got stuck on the picnic table and then the loud slap of skin on ground as he tripped and fell onto his hands and not his face only by virtue of quick reflexes.

**Author's Note:**

> i cant imagine daken not joining the hunt either, but one can dream. theres a scene i wish i could bring myself to write of daken and bobby sitting inside the house with the doors open as it rains, listening to the storm and waiting for logan while huddled around the warmth of a light. that visual gave this fic its name.


End file.
